


Transfigurations

by wargoddess



Series: The Templar Canticles [1]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age II
Genre: Anal Sex, Hawke sides with mages, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex, Prostitution, templar!Carver
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 07:05:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/607146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/pseuds/wargoddess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the battle against Meredith, Knight Captain Cullen finds he is the highest-ranking official in Kirkwall who's not yet dead. He'll need a strong right arm, and Carver Hawke is strong indeed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Transfigurations

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tanukiham](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanukiham/gifts).



     It made no sense to find beauty on a battlefield.  Certainly not on _this_ battlefield, lurid as it was with dwarven magic and spilt blood, nightmarish with statues come to life and a great woman driven to madness.  In the Void-spawned darkness it took every ounce of skill that Cullen possessed just to survive, let alone to aid his fellow traitorous Templar.

     But his fellow Templar needed no aid.  In vignette glimpses Cullen spied him across the Gallows courtyard, lunging at Meredith with his two-hander a-blur, or feinting to defend his brother while the Champion summoned fire to rain upon their foes.  That had been the true surprise, for in all the time Cullen had known him, Ser Carver Hawke had been solidly mediocre in combat practice, in magical annulment, in catechism -- so mediocre, in fact, as to be beneath Cullen's notice.  Now Cullen saw the truth:  Ser Hawke was anything _but_ mediocre.  Here where life and death took precedence over appearances, he was powerful, terrible, brilliant -- and inasmuch as any dealer of death could be, beautiful.

     Then it was done and Meredith dead, or close enough not to matter.  Cullen felt nothing as he gazed at her stiff, smoldering corpse, though he wanted to.  Meredith had believed in him, after the horrors of Kinloch.  She had trusted him, given him a chance to earn back his reputation and honor.  Should he not have felt something in that moment?  Regret for betraying her, at least.  Grief; he had genuinely admired her, once.  Triumph, even -- but no.  There was nothing.

     A gauntleted hand fell on his shoulder, and he turned half-expecting to see Meredith standing there.

     "You all right, Knight Captain?"  Ser Hawke.  The man looked as exhausted as Cullen felt, his armor streaked with burns and blood, though he seemed to have taken no grievous injury.  And there was something deeper than weariness in his face, something that Cullen found immediately familiar -- ah, but yes.  Here stood Ser Hawke, and there had gone Ser Hawke's brother the Champion, down the steps of the Gallows and off to Maker knew where.  _Why did you not go with him?_   Cullen wanted to ask.

     Instead he said:  "You're still here." 

     Hawke blinked in something too flat and strengthless to be surprise.  "My brother doesn't need me, Knight Captain.  He never has."  He shrugged, glancing after the elder Hawke, then faced Cullen again.  "Figured you might, though."

     Cullen nodded, slowly.  "I believe I do."  Indeed.  All Kirkwall would need people like him -- men and women willing to risk their lives for peace and order and righteousness -- if it was to survive the coming storm.

     So Carver Hawke nodded.  "Then here's where I belong."

#

     In the days that followed, Cullen found himself relying on Ser Hawke rather more than Hawke's mediocre rank merited.  It could not be helped; as the only Templar to have stood with him against Meredith, Hawke was also the only Templar Cullen could trust.  He needed trustworthy support desperately now -- because with no Viscount, no Knight Commander, no First Enchanter, and no Grand Cleric, Cullen had become the only high-ranking official in Kirkwall who was not yet dead.

     He could not do it all, and knew better than to try.  On Hawke's suggestion he contacted Seneschal Bran and offered him a deal:  if Bran would assume the office of Viscount, the Templars would support him.  Bran was no nobleman, and Cullen did not much like him -- no one did, it seemed -- but he was a familiar face, experienced and competent.  Bran agreed and nary a noble popped up to protest the appointment.  Then Hawke brought in Donnic Hendyr, acting captain of the City Guard in the wake of Aveline Vallen's departure with the Champion.  "Offer my wife a guarantee of safe return," the man had demanded, with a polite if sharp-edged smile, "and you'll have order in your streets, and the Guard's support if rogue Templars or mages should come knocking."  And though the Chantry had issued a writ condemning the Champion and all who supported him, Cullen agreed. 

     "Until such time as the Divine sees fit to replace me," he qualified, "which as you know could happen at any minute."  Cullen, after all, had supported the Champion as well.  But given that the Divine had her hands full with the full-scale revolt of every Circle and Templar garrison _except_ Kirkwall, Cullen rather thought Captain Vallen would be safe in Kirkwall for quite some time.

     With Captain Vallen's return, Donnic's promise held true:  within days the looting and violence that had plagued the streets began to diminish.  It was she who suggested the next stage of the city's restoration -- that he should offer the same guarantee to Varric Tethras, a member of the Dwarven Merchant's Guild, and another companion of the Champion.  When Cullen did this and Tethras sailed back from wherever he'd been, Cullen was amazed at the speed with which prices on city goods, and reports of smuggling, diminished.  A month later when Cullen met with Tethras and Vallen and mentioned this, the captain laughed, while the dwarf only smiled in his calm, cagey way.  But both of them nodded to Hawke before leaving, and Hawke nodded back.

     Such incidents solidified the impulse Cullen had begun to form, through the difficult weeks.  He had always survived by such impulses; between those and faith, he was not the most by-the-letter Templar he could have been, but he'd stood strong against abominations and worse, again and again.  That made it easy to bring in Hawke, who stood at attention before the desk that had been Meredith's, and tell him what Cullen had decided.

     " _Knight Captain_?"  Hawke stared at him, displaying none of the pleasure that a lesser man might have felt.  Good.  That meant Hawke comprehended the enormity of the role that came with the title.  "You want me to be --  Are you --  are you _certain_ , ser?  I don't have the seniority."

     "I am not interested in seniority."  Indeed, some of the seniormost members of the Order had vanished in the weeks since Meredith's death, gone to join their fellows among the rebel Templars.  And Cullen himself had had no seniority, only a singular determination to never suffer another abomination to live, before Meredith had made him captain.  "What I need now is loyalty, ideally paired with competence and good solid common sense.  You _do_ have these qualities, don't you?"

     He had never seen Hawke smile before, and it surprised him now:  a soft white flash in the hard-edged sculpture of his face.  It made him look oddly young.  "My brother might dispute it, ser, but yes, I've sense enough, and as for competence -- well, I'll do my best."  He hesitated, his smile fading.  "I have a condition, though."

     Interesting.  "Name it."

     Hawke looked away for a moment.  "A friend once told me that I seemed tired of putting others before myself."

     Cullen nodded, wondering what sort of wretched friends the man had been stuck with, to tell him such things.

     "I'm not, you know.  I've spent my life putting my family first.  Lone blade in a house full of mages; I couldn't excel, or it drew too much attention.  So I've gotten into the habit of pretending to be... less than I am."  He sighed.  "Fat lot of good that did.  Everyone's dead except Brother, and he's -- well... Maker.  Shit."

     It explained a great deal.  And at some point Cullen would have to discuss with the man his habit of talking like a mercenary.  "Go on."

     Hawke turned back to him, face gone to flint again.  "I won't kiss your arse, ser.  I'll do nothing to undermine you in public, and I'll respect the chain of command, of course, but -- "  He scowled.  "I stood with you against Meredith.  That earns me something."

     Cullen inclined his head, beginning to understand why this man and his brother did not get along.  "My respect and trust, certainly," he said, "and I'm glad you understand the importance of decorum, especially in these chaotic days.  But why do I get the impression you want something more, Ser Hawke?"

     "Carver."

     "Pardon?"

     " _Carver_.  My brother's Hawke, since our father died.  I was named after a Templar.  I've earned that name."  Ser Hawke -- Carver -- then folded his arms.  "And yeah, I want something more.  I want -- "  and suddenly he _blushed_.  "I want to be friends."

     It was, all things considered, not the strangest request Cullen had ever gotten.  "...Friends."

     " _Yes._ "  Carver lifted his chin, warming to the subject.  "Templars and mages, we're supposed to work together to face the challenge of magic, right?  That's what the old Grand Cleric used to say.  So I figure, all this shit -- "  He gestured toward the windows, meaning the city, meaning all of Thedas, meaning the war.  "This is because we keep forgetting we're supposed to _care about_ each other.  The Qunari had that right:  everybody's so damn busy trying to put themselves first, trying to get theirs, figuring everybody else is out to get them, that it's all gone wrong.  Yeah?"

     It was the most that Cullen had ever heard him say at once.  And, in the man's irreverent, half-barbaric way -- he was so _very_ Ferelden that it made Cullen homesick for a moment -- he'd managed to articulate something that Cullen himself had come to believe.

     "I suppose I must agree," he said, after a moment's further consideration.  He could not help smiling; despite the strangeness of the demand, he felt oddly touched by it.  He could not recall the last time he had called someone friend.  "For I need a competent soul in place here, and being your _friend_ does not seem so onerous a thing in exchange for that."

     "Glad you think so," Carver said.  "So I accept.  Now, you're coming with me."

     "Pardon?"  But Carver was already striding around the desk, taking Cullen by the arm and pulling him out of the chair.

     "I watch you," Carver said -- and then inexplicably, he blushed again.  The first stages of any friendship were awkward, Cullen supposed.  "You never leave the Gallows, except on Templar business.  I never see you at the Hanged Man or anywhere.  So I'm taking you out for the evening, to have some fun."

     "What?"  Perhaps Cullen had agreed to this madness too quickly.  "Ser H -- _Carver_ , given the state the city's in, and the work to be done putting it rights -- "  He gestured toward the Knight Commander's desk, piled high as it was with missives and forms and writs.

     "The city's fucked.  It'll be fucked for years; no matter how fast you do the paperwork, that won't change."  That  flash again, suddenly. His smile was like the sun peeking over Sundermount's forbidding crags -- not unexpected, just somehow incongruous.  "But you, Ser Cullen, look like you haven't _gotten_ fucked in years.  So we're going to the Rose, first and foremost.  After that, we'll play it by ear."

     Protests, Cullen quickly discovered, did not work on Carver Hawke. 

     The man had no sense of propriety, despite being a child of one of Kirkwall's oldest noble families.  He talked like a mercenary because he _was_ a mercenary, or had been; too late Cullen remembered seeing his application dossier, and a mention of the Red Iron.  And as Cullen had already seen, Ser Carver had a disturbingly devious streak, which Cullen supposed should not have been a surprise.  After all, a man who had spent his life hiding mages from the Templars would naturally keep a few tricks hidden up his sleeve, even after joining them.

     Like the fact that he was apparently enthusiastic about his drinking and whoring, when off duty.  "This will be good for morale," said Carver, tossing Madam Lusine a deuce of gold and pressing a glass of wine into Cullen's hand.  "You have any idea how many Templars come here?  Word gets around that you've done it too, the men and women in the Gallows will realize you're as human as they are, and they'll like you better for it."

     If it had not been sound advice, Cullen told himself later, it would never have worked.  Thus it happened that Cullen found himself in the bed and arms of a charming young elven lady, whose name he quite forgot over the hour that transpired.  He was not completely inexperienced, but it had indeed been a long time since the happier days of Kinloch Hold with his fellow Templar recruits.  Afterward, he was willing to admit that perhaps Carver had been right to drag him here.

     As he came to the balcony overlooking the Rose's common room, however, he did not see Carver.  He could admit to both disappointment and relief; relief that no one he knew was in the room to remark on his indiscretion, and disappointment that his so-called friend had abandoned him so readily.

     A deep -- and familiar -- groan from one of the balcony's side-rooms sent a sharp _frisson_ of disquiet along Cullen's nerves, though he could not have said why.  They were in a brothel, after all, and he could already tell that Ser Carver was not the sort to restrain his impulses.  It was an impulse of Cullen's own which drew him toward the door, and that peculiar sense of unease which prompted him to push it open a little, upon finding the latch incompletely shut.

     It made no sense to find beauty in the bodies of men, Cullen had decided long ago.  He did, of course, because both were creations of the Maker, and men could be fully as alluring as women in their way.  But the Chantry urged its faithful not to squander the Maker's gift, and since men could not make children with men, he had always thought of that particular attraction as... well, _wasteful_.  Beyond that, since the matter hadn't come up, he hadn't thought about it much.

     But there was undeniable beauty here, undulating together in long steady strokes.  The man bent over Carver's back displayed a certain expertise, his brow furrowed in concentration and his thrusts powerful, precisely angled.  He was a big fellow, broad-chested and strong-handed; might've made a good Templar, Cullen judged.  Carver, though...

     It was altogether strange to see his colleague, the Champion's brother, the powerful young warrior who had challenged Meredith and survived -- coming apart by degrees.   His body arched, a gleaming muscled comma as he pushed back against each penetration.  One fist clenched on the sheets; the other forearm was braced against the bed, the fingers of that hand spasmodically opening wider and then relaxing, again and again.  And his _face_.  Cullen had thought him a bit stiff and overly guarded, but there was nothing of stone now in the openmouthed strain and _abandon_ of his expressions.  Indeed, Carver would utter occasional groans like the one that had lured Cullen near, and the sound seemed to shake his whole body and the bed too, so transported was he.

     Cullen had not realized how long he'd stood there watching until the prostitute glanced at him and lifted an eyebrow.  Cullen froze, his face flushing, but the man seemed more amused than offended.  After a moment's consideration, the prostitute reached down and -- oh.  _Oh_.  And Cullen thought no more of closing the door.

     Because the man had coaxed Carver up to stand on his knees, holding him in place with an arm across the chest and one hand wrapped around the rather impressive erection that jutted forth from Carver's body.  And then the prostitute braced himself and --  It was not Cullen's way even to think such words, but sometimes they were all that fit a situation.  The man _fucked_ Carver.  Fucked him so hard that the sound of it echoed throughout the room; so deeply that Carver arched back against him, head fallen on the man's shoulder and mouth open in one long broken sob.  His chest heaved; he shuddered with each thrust as if some vital part of him that desperately needed to be touched was at last getting the attention it deserved.  Then the prostitute worked the hand on Carver's cock and for a moment Cullen thought Carver was _angry_ ; his eyes flew open, and his lips drew back from his teeth in a snarl.  But a breath later Carver cried out, bucking and shuddering and spilling over the prostitute's hand.

     And Cullen, quite to his own shock and chagrin, found himself as hard as stone within his trousers.  Amazing, really, given his earlier exertions.

     It made no sense.

     He shut the door to the room quietly and headed downstairs, where another elven lass served him a drink with a knowing smile.  "Adriano is always available after ten o'clock," she said as Cullen nodded thanks.  "He is also quite amenable to sharing his time with _two_ gentlemen, if you so request."

     Cullen could not help his blush, but it was easy enough to demur, and the woman did not press.  In any case he had no interest in Adriano, nor in any of the other Rose employees who threw him speculative and perhaps amused looks throughout the rest of the evening.

     But when Carver at last came downstairs, his hair combed and collar damp with soapwater but face still suspiciously flushed, Cullen found himself staring.  Only when Carver frowned at him in puzzlement did Cullen find the wherewithal to look away.

#

     On Carver's suggestion, Cullen had notices posted around the city indicating that the Kirkwall Circle would offer amnesty and protection to any mages who chose to turn themselves in.  "The protection part's important," Carver insisted.  "A lot of mages don't want this war any more than we do.  And half the ones who escaped the Gallows are probably in trouble by now -- starving, or in the sights of slavers and the like.  They don't know how to survive out here.  If we make it clear we want to help, they'll come back."

     Cullen was more skeptical of this, but he was forced to revise his opinion quickly.  The first mage to return was an older woman whom Cullen remembered as a favorite of old Emeric; she seemed well enough physically, but the look that she threw toward the Gallows' looming spire mingled homesickness and sorrow in a way that put the truth to Carver's words.  After that came more mages, some of them ragged and thin, some with haunted eyes from whatever they'd done to survive Kirkwall's dangerous streets, some still bearing the injuries the Templars had inflicted on them during Meredith's charge. 

     Cullen allocated a portion of the dwindling treasury for their succor, and Carver organized them into small "family style" units, to share living quarters and take care of one another.  Within each grouping he designated one mage to speak for the others' needs -- and, he reported to Cullen, to watch for signs of blood magic usage, since Kirkwall was lousy with practitioners.  There was some risk in doing this, of course -- if the chosen watcher was a blood mage herself, for example.  "But that will keep them from _doing_ it," Carver explained when he reported to Cullen later.  "That's all we really want anyway, see?  Mages don't get to have families, usually, when they're in Circles, so this is a privilege.  One they'll want to hold onto, especially if their 'families' work out.  Even a blood mage can reform, with enough incentive.  That's what we're giving them."

     There was, as Cullen had rather suspected there would be, some resistance to this among the other Templars of the Gallows.  Cullen could not address the matter himself; his own hands were full trying to secure funds now that the Kirkwall Chantry no longer existed to provide the Gallows' support.  Viscount Bran was less than sympathetic, until Cullen pointed out that unpaid, heavily-armed Templars and frightened, desperate mages were just the thing to set loose on Kirkwall's streets, were they not?  So Bran grudgingly agreed to offer some support -- and to Cullen's surprise, he coaxed the Dwarven Merchants' Guild to supply them as well.  They agreed, on the theory that trade might go more easily if Kirkwall were not a smoking blood-soaked ruin.

     With such worries in his mind, he had all but forgotten about his colleagues' unrest until he returned one afternoon from a day of meetings to find the bodies of three Templars hanging from the Gallows gates.

     Carver, when summoned to explain himself, was a thing of ice and steel standing at attention before his desk.  "I caught them going at some of the younger mages, ser," he said, his voice shaking as his body did not.  "Pants down and all.  One of them was using a lyrium brand -- "  He shivered once, all over, the fingers of one hand flexing into a fist before he forced himself back to proper stance.  "The Order's rules are clear on the matter of both mage abuse and the misappropriation of magical artifacts."

     "Indeed they are," said Cullen, steepling his fingers as he regarded his captain and thought, _it is a miracle you left their bodies intact enough to hang_.  "And while I might dispute your decision to apply the maximum sentence in all three cases, I can't argue with the, ah, deterrent value this incident might have."

     "Thank you, ser." 

     "The mages these Templars were harming -- "

     "They've been healed, physically."  Unstated, and unnecessary to state, was that there was no telling what damage had been done to the mages' minds and hearts.  "The spirit healers are unfortunately _experienced_ in dealing with such injuries.  They took measures to ensure there would be no disease, or -- other physical outcomes, for the female victims."  He grimaced; officially the Chantry frowned upon contraception.  It also frowned upon mage reproduction, though, so Cullen nodded to show that he understood and agreed.  "Their families are looking after them."

     "Glad to hear that, then."

     Carver nodded.  But he still stood there, radiating a rage so deep and bitter that Cullen found himself increasingly concerned for the man.  He made a snap decision.

     "Come," he said, and took Carver down to the practice yard.  There he handed Carver a shield and blunted longsword -- not a two-hander, as he did not wish to die -- and there they sparred for the better part of an hour.  It was rewarding for both of them; Cullen had been too long at desks and in meetings, and the exercise felt marvelous.  And when Carver stopped at the end of the match and threw down his weapons and shouted to the roof of the tower -- the wave of the Smite which followed this would've knocked Cullen off his feet if he hadn't braced for it -- he thought perhaps Carver had gotten somethng he needed out of it, too.

     In the wake of that, what could he do but walk over to the man, put a hand on his slumped shoulder, and say, "Would you join me in my quarters for dinner?"  For that was what friends did, he felt certain.

#

     "I had a twin sister," Carver explained later, after they had eaten their meager stew in Cullen's quarters.  With funds straitened, the Gallows was on rations, and Cullen would not eat better than either his men or his mages.  He had, however, spent some of his own savings to acquire a supply of various high-quality spirits, which had been useful in his negotiations with the Guard Captain and Merchants' representatives.  Carver had drunk his way through a prodigious amount of it already.  Cullen would not -- could not -- match him, but he'd done enough to be companionable.

     "She died in Fereldan; didn't see twenty turns.  But she was a mage too, see, like my father and brother.  Three apostates, and Mother, and me."  And if that was not an argument for mages never to reproduce, Cullen thought, he had never heard a better one.  But he kept this thought to himself, for Carver was half-sprawled across his sitting room table, armor scattered on the floor and a bottle of rum in one fist, looking more than a bit pathetic.  It took no great empathy to realize that the man saw his own family in the Gallows' poor victims, which Cullen supposed was understandable.  All mages were someone's child, after all -- or someone's sister, or brother, or father.  A good Templar never forgot that.

     "Darkspawn killed her.  We'd been living -- hiding -- in Lothering, and we'd waited too long. Afraid to travel with anyone else given that Bethany and Garrett would have to use magic if we were attacked."  Carver dragged himself upright and took a long pull straight from the bottle; Cullen privately marveled that he was still coherent at all.  Then the man exhaled and set the bottle down -- carefully, Cullen noted, pushing it away with equal care.  "So, see, she died because she was a mage, in a way.  We'd have left earlier, if not for that.  And that fucking -- ogre -- "  He fell silent, shuddering in fresh grief.

     "I'm sorry," Cullen said awkwardly, though the words seemed inadequate.  Carver nodded in absent acceptance, getting hold of himself.

     "I... just can't help thinking, sometimes, about -- "  And he shook his head, shuddering.  "Void.  I wouldn't _exist_ if my father hadn't been set free from the Circle here.  But wouldn't it be better if... if Bethany was _alive_ , even if she had to be here?  Sometimes I think that.  And then something like _this shit_ happens, and I realize maybe she's actually better off _dead_ than letting some sodding, blighted pervert _torture_ her every damned day -- "

     He pushed to his feet suddenly and swept the bottle off the table, and Cullen quickly rose and took him by the shoulders lest he start raging and destroy Cullen's apartment.  But the instant Cullen touched him, Carver's fury seemed to crumple in on itself.  A moment later Cullen found his arms full and his Knight Captain's face pressed to his shoulder, his whole body shaking as if with the ague.

     It was only decent, Cullen decided, to murmur soothing inanities and stroke the man's back until his fit passed.  And if he did not move once Carver's grief had subsided, he told himself, it was because there would be awkwardness once they separated.  Easier to simply stand there, enduring the weight and warmth of the other man's body, listening to his breathing as it slowed.  Easy, too, to think nothing when Carver's hands shifted from clutching at his back, instead pressing flat against his sides.  Cullen had racked his own armor, and a Tranquil would come in the morning to polish it; it did no harm to let Carver continue to take comfort in him.  He thought this even as Carver eased the tail of his shirt up and slid a hand over Cullen's bare skin, calluses rasping a little against the hair of his belly.  It was remarkably relaxing. 

     Until Carver shifted, and Cullen became aware of three alarming things at once.  The first was that Carver's lips had brushed the curve of his neck just at the shoulder juncture; the sensation made him shiver, to his own shock.  The second was that one of Carver's thumbs had begun to circle his nipple, and that -- oh -- that was -- he did not want to think about it.  The third was that Cullen was so hard his trousers felt tight, and the lump that Carver had nudged against his own felt big as a tree.

     When Cullen caught his breath and went stiff -- stiffer -- Carver stilled as well, his hands warm but unmoving on Cullen's skin.  "Please," he said.

     Cullen swallowed, unsure of what to do.  Surely this was wrong.  Surely he should not -- want -- but --

     "What is it that you want?" he managed to ask.  Though he had more than an idea.

     "Nothing," Carver said.  But he would not look at Cullen, keeping his face down; his breath tickled Cullen's throat.  "Just a friend.  But..."  He shuddered, once, all over.  "Just... please.  Can you?  Can you... hold still?  And close your eyes."

     Cullen frowned, uncertain.  The memory of Carver at the Rose, writhing beneath another man, flickered through his mind.  He shuddered and could not _help_ closing his eyes.  "All right."

     He heard Carver swallow.  Lick his lips.  Then the man pulled away a little, sliding down to his knees; his hands moved from Cullen's chest to the front of his trousers.  And then --

     Oh, Maker.

     Oh, sweet Andraste at the _stake_.

     Somewhere in the time that followed -- it could not have been hours, Cullen knew this, but that was what it _felt_ like -- he found himself bent over Carver, his hands threaded through the man's short hair, arms draped across those great broad shoulders to better-feel the flex and shift of his neck.  No one had ever done this to him, and he did not understand why such a simple thing should feel so powerful.  It should not have _undone_ him the way it did.  He should not have found himself half-delirious, thrusting into the wet heat of Carver's mouth and babbling nonsense like _oh Maker don't it's so good_ and _what is this_ and _oh please I'm going to_ and more, worse; things he would never have said had he been in his right mind.  And he should never have nearly fallen to the floor, shaking and insensible in the wake of the storm, as Carver finally pulled away and wiped his mouth with one hand.

     Cullen did manage to get his pants up and slump into a chair at the table, for the sake of his dignity and because the room was spinning.  Perhaps that was the drink; he could not be sure.  Regardless, he only belatedly caught his breath and came back to himself, only to find Carver at the door, about to leave.

     "Wait," he blurted, and then faltered silent, having no idea quite what he wanted to say.

     Carver stopped, not turning back, and not taking his hand off the door-handle.  "Thank you," he said softly.  Cullen could not fathom his mood from his voice.

     "But..."  Cullen shifted, acutely uncomfortable.  Surely it was _unfair_ of him, to say nothing of ungentlemanly, to simply leave matters like this.  Carver hadn't even taken his clothes off.  He fell silent again, though, when Carver laughed.

     "Just friends," he said.  "Remember?"

     "Well, certainly," said Cullen, though none of this made any sense to him.  He had never had a friend do -- that -- to him, and he was unsure of the etiquette of having a friend who would.  But before he could press the conversation, Carver sort of shook himself and opened the door.

     "Sorry for blubbering like that," he said.  "Won't happen again."  And then he was gone.

#

     The blubbering, as Carver had termed it, did not happen again.  The other thing, though, did -- with relative frequency as matters in the Gallows finally settled into a sort of routine. 

     By day Cullen performed all the necessary duties of the Knight Commander, which included doing his best to keep Kirkwall out of the rapidly-spreading Mage-Templar war.  Val Royeaux seemed to be withholding judgment, as Kirkwall had not appeared on the list of lands it deemed heretical and in need of correction, and yet Cullen had received an official letter of censure for his failure to "sufficiently subdue" the mages within his charge.  They did not replace him, however, and so Cullen kept doing what he'd been doing, which was simply the best he could do.

     In the evenings, as he sat weary from meetings and paperwork, Carver would come in to make his daily report on the state of the Gallows.  People had begun to bring in mage-children again, and the family groupings within the Gallows had resumed teaching those children how to control their powers -- with rather more success than the old school-like system had had, though only time and future Harrowings would see the proof of that.  After his report was done, however, Carver would wait, and when Cullen dismissed him, he would come 'round the desk.

     And then he would _look_ at Cullen with those unnervingly hard eyes of his -- searching for what, Cullen did not know.  Cullen always met his eyes, since they seemed to demand this; he tried not to show his own confusion.  Sometimes Carver did nothing at all after this, only nodding to himself and perhaps cupping Cullen's cheek for a moment in one warm, broad hand.  Sometimes, however, Carver would kneel or crouch at Cullen's feet, and Cullen would try not to swallow in anticipation, and then Carver would attend him with the same thorough relish as that first time.  Occasionally he used just his hand, working Cullen slowly in one fist as he eased up his commander's shirt and brushed lips and tongue over downy skin; Cullen could not quite bring himself to admit that he preferred this to the other, because of those little soft touches.  But the other was good too, especially on those days when Cullen had spent his whole day in arguments with the Guard Captain or the Viscount.  It made the meetings easier to get through, actually, knowing that at some point later that evening he might find himself gasping and writhing in his chair, clutching at the chair-arms or a gently-bobbing head and trying desperately not to cry out as his whole body tried to pour itself down Carver Hawke's throat.

     And then Carver would usually leave.  He never asked reciprocation, though Cullen could see how sorely he craved it.  He never let Cullen kiss him, either, though after feeling his mouth elsewhere Cullen had begun to crave a closer taste of it.  Sometimes Carver sat down instead, chatting casually with Cullen about inanities while doing nothing about the prominent lump that Cullen could see in his lap.  If Cullen tried in his inexpert way to steer the conversation towards more intimate matters, Carver would declare himself tired and head back to his quarters.  Occasionally instead of kneeling Carver would instead drag Cullen out to the Hanged Man for a drink, or to the Rose, where he left Cullen to his own devices while returning to the prostitute he'd used before, who was apparently his favorite.  Aside from that, unless he was doing it with his own hand, Cullen had no idea how the man got any sort of gratification for his own needs.

     He was really not sure what to think of it all.  Or how to change things -- because Cullen had begun to find himself increasingly dissatisfied with the status quo.

#

     The war did not leave them unscathed.  The city had begun to receive refugees again, as the armies of the reborn Inquisition swept down on community after community and inflicted horrors on the entire populace in their zeal to root out magery and heresy.  And in some places the Black Feathers -- rebel mages, those willing to do anything to achieve freedom for their kind -- fought back, using foulest sorceries to make their small numbers more than equal to the Templar-trained hordes.  Between them both were caught the ordinary folk of Thedas.  Those who could flocked to the few refuges that stood like beacons above the fray.  In the greatest of ironies, Kirkwall had become the only city of the Free Marches untouched by both factions -- apart from the war's unfortunate beginning within its gates -- and so half the Marches had come to camp on the Kirkwall docks, begging a way in.  It was almost like old times, Carver said during one of their evening talks, and he had not looked pleased to be reminded of it.

     Cullen did not realize how bad things had gotten, however, until he came back to the Gallows one evening to find bodies laid out in the courtyard and the smell of smoke and charred flesh thick in the air.  For an instant a peculiar fear gripped him as he spied a big man in Templar armor among the dead, but when he drew close enough to see, the dead man turned out to be one of the newer recruits, whom he had seen but whose name he could not recall.  And he recognized none of the others, though there was that prickle of feyness about them, even in death, which told Cullen they were mages.

     An assassination attempt, reported Ser Margitte, who stood incongruously in Carver's place before Cullen's desk as she said this.  And it felt wrong to receive a report at all before dark --  But that did not matter, as Margitte went on, and at last it became clear why Knight Captain Carver had not appeared.

     A party of ragged young mages had come to the gates, ostensibly offering to turn themselves in and begging for food.  The recruits at the gate, having grown only too used to this circumstance in the year since Meredith's death, had taken them to the Knight Captain without bothering to Cleanse them -- whereupon the mages had attacked, revealing themselves to be highly-trained in both magic and a martial technique no one had ever seen before. 

     Cullen had, as Margitte described it.  "Arcane warriors," he said, clenching a fist on a pile of undone paperwork.  "An ancient elven skill, which reappeared during Fereldan's Blight --  I did not know, however, that it had spread beyond Fereldan."

     Neither, apparently, had the Knight Captain.  As the Templar recruits struggled, stunned by magic and finding their own swords taken and turned against them, Ser Carver had rallied them and fought off their attackers very nearly single-handed.  But then he had fallen, so sorely wounded that the spirit healers had drained themselves to save his life.

     "Damnedest thing, too," said Margitte, oblivious as Cullen sat numb after the litany of Carver's injuries.  "The robes -- ours, I mean -- fought for him.  Even as the Feathers shouted at them to rebel, that they could be free; ours _fought_ the Feathers.  In fact -- "  She looked uneasy, but finally said what Cullen had already guessed from her face.  "We couldn't have done it without them."

     _We keep forgetting we're supposed to care about each other_.  But the mages had not forgotten who'd treated them like human beings.  It seemed Carver had been right, again.

      Carver was asleep, when Cullen let himself into the room with the Gallows' skeleton key.  It was the first time he had ever seen the other man's quarters, which were the same as every other knight's as Carver had opted not to move into the larger apartment that officers were permitted.  There were some personal touches that Cullen found a bit puzzling:  Orlesian pennants, for one.  These were balanced by portraits of a dog, which made Cullen smile.

     He sat on the edge of the bed, carefully balancing the tray he'd gotten from the Tranquil, and Carver stirred at the movement, blinking at him owlishly.

     "You've broken our agreement," Cullen said, trying to smile and feeling anything but cheerful in that moment.  Pale and wounded like this, Carver actually looked _smaller_ as he lay against the pillows.  "We agreed that in exchange for my friendship, you would give me a _whole, functional_ Knight Captain."

     Carver laughed, though something in Cullen's belly grew tight at the weakness in the sound.  "Just give me a few days and you'll get him back," he said.  "You can withhold your friendship in the meantime, to make us even."

     "I think not."  Cullen balanced the tray in his lap and held up a piece of cheese.  "I shall simply have to use our friendship to make you whole again."  Carver's eyes locked on the cheese with an intent that made Cullen smile for real.  The spirit healers had explained that without more lyrium -- Cullen had been forced to ration that too -- they'd had to draw the necessary strength from their own bodies, and from Carver himself.  If they had taken it from his blood, it would've been blood magic; instead they'd drawn it from his muscles and his bones and his stamina, which would leave him strengthless and ravenous for days.  Given that the damned Feathers had cut off his leg and gutted him -- the healers had reattached the former, regrown the latter -- Cullen considered a bit of appetite a small price to pay.

     Carver ate quickly, so Cullen fed him quickly, and so intent was he on keeping up with Carver's hunger that he did not notice at first that he was being watched.  "They were after you, you know," Carver said around a mouthful of bread, when Cullen noticed.  Cullen blinked in surprise; Carver nodded.  "They asked for the Knight Captain, not the _acting_ Knight Captain.  The recruits on the gate figured they'd heard of me, wanted to make sure they'd be treated well.  Apparently I have a _reputation_."  He grimaced a bit.  "But one of 'em said, 'Wait, I thought he was blond?' just before they attacked."

     This Cullen had not known.  "Then I must thank you again, it seems, for saving my life.  I doubt I could've fought them off as well as you did."

     "You'd have been fine."  But the most peculiar light had come into the other man's eyes, and Cullen found himself staring, trying to fathom it.  "So you still need me."

     Cullen frowned.  "Of course.  Do you doubt it?"

     "Sometimes."  He waved a hand as Cullen offered a segment of orange; considering how much he'd eaten already, Cullen was still impressed.  There was a crumb at the corner of his lips from the tart he'd wolfed down a moment before, nearly taking one of Cullen's fingers with it.  "You're so damned _competent_.  Can't see why you even want me around."

     "You say that as if competence were a curse."  Cullen set the tray aside, shaking his head in amusement.  "Would a man so competent as myself have appointed a useless fool as his second?"

     "Guess not."  Carver shifted to get comfortable, then grimaced as his body reminded him of its condition.  That single movement seemed to exhaust him; he sighed and slumped, looking so weary and frustrated that Cullen could not help smiling.  He reached up to brush the crumb from Carver's lips -- and Carver froze.  Puzzled, Cullen immediately pulled his hand away, and an awkward silence fell.

     "Anybody taking care of you?" Carver asked, glancing down, and Cullen blushed as he realized what Carver meant.

     "Of course not!"  As if he did such things with _anyone_.  But before he could find a way to splutter this out, Carver chuckled wearily.

     "Go to the Rose, then."  He grunted and made a mighty effort, rolling away from Cullen onto his side.  Through a yawn he murmured, "Ask for Adriano.  Not your usual taste, I know, but variety's good for everyone, right?"

     A moment later he was asleep.  Cullen stared at his back, then -- rather more hastily than he should have, from a helpless man -- retreated to his own quarters.

#

     It had not been an unreasonable suggestion, however.

     Not that he had any particular interest in going to the Rose.  Prostitutes did not appeal much to him; he patronized them only because Carver seemed to think it a necessary male bonding ritual.  Because they were friends.

     In his own bed that night, restless, Cullen shifted to gaze through his window, counting the stars wherever he could see them through the haze and smoke of Kirkwall's night sky.  It did not help.

     Friends.

     It made no sense.

     After a time, Cullen rose, dressed, and informed the watch that he was going out.

#

     "Wondered how long it would take you," said Adriano, once the door of the room was closed.  He leaned against the door, smiling with a smug air, and he was either an excellent actor or there was genuine interest in the way that he examined Cullen.  "Way you always watch me go at your friend, only a matter of time, I figured.  You want what he gets?  Or something a bit different?"  He touched his tongue to his lips -- speculating, or perhaps suggesting.

     Cullen shifted and cleared his throat unnecessarily.  "I must apologize," he said, relying on politeness in the absence of any other clear protocol.  "I did not come for, er, I, you see -- "  He drew a deep breath.  "I was hoping for, ah, _advice_."

     "Advice?" Adriano moved over to the bed and draped himself across it.  "It's your two hours, tired-eyes.  What's this about?"

     It made no sense for him to be so uncomfortable.  Cullen sat down at the room's small desk, trying to look casual, and trying harder not to notice the selection of flasks and -- implements -- stacked there.  "My friend, if you must know."

     "Oh, is that how it is?"  The man grinned and Cullen set his jaw.  "Now, now, no need to get any stiffer.  I _did_ rather think you were his type."  Adriano gestured toward his own oiled, muscled torso, unselfconsciously proud.  "Likes 'em strong, that one.  But if he's got you for free, why's he paying for me?"

     _The question of the hour_ , Cullen thought -- and then he marvelled, privately, at his own irritation.  Because yes, now that he considered the matter, it _bothered him_ that Carver -- that Carver chose _this_ , when he could so easily have --

     Adriano sat up, looking at him oddly, and then his eyebrows rose.  "Ah, I see.  He _don't_ got you."

     "He has."  Cullen resisted the urge to correct the man's language.  "We have been... intimate, to a degree.  But there are... barriers.  I had hoped..."  He could not bring himself to say it.  Perhaps this had been a mistake.

     Adriano looked skeptical and a bit bored.  "That one ain't got _barriers_.  You sure it's not your own you're talking about?"  He cocked his head, considering.  "I can show you a few tips, if you've never..."  He grinned.  "Had your barrier breached, so to speak."

     A mistake indeed.  Cullen got to his feet, hot and flustered and angry and not sure why he felt any of these things, wanting nothing more than to leave before this conversation could get any worse.  "Thank you, no.  My apologies again; I... thank you."  He turned to go.

     "You're a weird one," Adriano said.  When Cullen stopped and turned, affronted, the man had rolled onto his back, hands tucked behind his head and legs crossed, the picture of relaxation.  "So he likes a stiffnecked type like you?  I guess it only makes sense, though; he's weird too."

     This was a mistake.  But Cullen hesitated at the door, finding himself saying, "Please explain."

     Adriano shrugged, closing his eyes.  "It's not usual, see, for a man to pay for that sort of thing.  He's looker enough to get someone to pound his arse easy.  Blokes probably lining up for the chance, big pretty monster like him."  He laughed; Cullen ground his teeth in purely irrational loathing of the very idea.  "But he always asks me what _I_ want, what I haven't got for awhile and might be craving, and when I tell him he gets all hot and bothered.  Likes being the one doing the pleasing, I guess.  Needs to be _needed_.  You the needy type?"

     Was that an insult or not?  Cullen fought not to clench his fists.  "I need nothing, serrah, I assure you."

     "Hn?"  Adriano glanced at him and smiled.  "Oh, sorry; didn't mean anything by it."  Cullen forced himself to relax.  "So maybe you're the _selfless_ type.  But if that's true, and you don't need him...  Well, maybe that's why he's paying me."

     Cullen stared at him.  Then he turned and walked out.

#

     He got through the next day, though it was difficult; he had not slept well the night before, and discussions of trade-treaties were less than engaging.  Eventually the Viscount snidely suggested that they adjourn before the Knight Commander talked in his sleep and started another war.  Restraining the urge to say something indecorous back, Cullen took the opportunity and left early.

     The spirit healer on duty gave a favorable report of Ser Carver's recovery.  A Tranquil had been in to assist him with his toilette and dinner, and he had more energy, though not enough to leave his sickbed yet.  "Aside from a growing frustration with his own limitations, which he unfortunately takes out on _everyone nearby_ ," the healer said with a sour look, "he is doing quite well for a man who nearly died."

     "Carry on, then," Cullen said.  He went first to his own rooms to remove and rack his armor per his usual habit, and then he went upstairs to Carver's quarters.

     The sun had just set.  Through the window of Carver's bedchamber Cullen could see the graceful Kirkwall skyline, and above it a magenta and orange glow still tinting the evening sky.  The beauty of the scene did nothing to assuage the frustration Cullen read in every line of Carver's face, when he turned to glare at whoever had come through the door.  "What now?"  Then he relaxed a little.  "Oh.  Sorry."

     "I was told you'd become querulous," said Cullen, crossing the room to sit on the side of the bed.  He did look better, thank the Maker.  The light painted streaks of color across the sheets and the loose pale shirt that Carver wore, and made starker shadows on his face.  Cullen could not help thinking of a lurid battlefield, and a lunging shape, and a statement that disguised a question:  _My brother doesn't need me; figured you might_.

     "I'm not _querulous_ , I'm _bored_.  Damn healers want me to just sleep all day.  They won't even bring me a book.  And you're the only visitor they allow."  Then Carver's expression turned sour.  "Not like I've others beating down the door, granted."

     Because Cullen was his only friend.  And he was Cullen's.  "Then we must make the most of my visit, I think."  Cullen reached up, then, and brushed his fingers over Carver's lips.  When Carver flinched this time, Cullen did not withdraw his fingers.  For someone with such a hard face, the man's mouth was remarkably soft.  Cullen softened his voice to suit.  "What would you have of me, Ser Carver?"

     There it was:  a flick of surprise and searching, a flick away and shift of unease.  "Nothing, I told you.  I've never wanted anything from you but what I asked."

     Cullen shifted to sit closer, leaning over him and bracing his arm on Carver's other side.  "Just friendship, yes.  I remember our agreement."  Before Carver could pull away, he brushed his lips against that so-soft mouth.  He could feel Carver's eyes on him, feel him stiffen -- against himself?  Against wanting?  Impossible to say, and irrelevant, because _Cullen_ wanted, and with Carver's mouth against his own he knew exactly _what_ he wanted, and what mattered now was that he find a way to convey this.

     "Cullen -- "

     The flutter of his lips as he spoke was hypnotic.  Cullen shifted closer still and touched his tongue to their inner curve, coaxing.  He had not kissed many in his life, it was true -- and never a man who seemed so determined to withhold his kisses.  But he craved this.  "Please."

     Carver went still, and Cullen took the opportunity to brush his lips over the man's freshly-shaven chin.  He craved, but he would not _take_.  He was still a gentleman.

     "What is it that you want, Knight Commander?" The words were soft, a whisper, barely moving Carver's chin.  And did he think using Cullen's title would deter him?  Cullen almost smiled.

     "Not friendship," Cullen said.  He moved his hand to Carver's belly; through the rough cloth of his shirt, freshly-healed abdominals tightened beneath Cullen's fingers.  "Not _just_ friendship."  When Carver did not resist, Cullen tugged the sheets back, and began to work a hand under his shirt.

     "Maker."  Carver shuddered, then drew a deep breath and caught Cullen's wrist; Cullen stilled his hand.  "You don't have to do this," Carver said, with such unease that Cullen frowned.  "Not... not just to -- "  He shrugged, but the gesture was stiffer than it should've been.  "I don't need _pity_ , just because I'm hurt or --   You don't owe me anything, I mean.  I do what I do because I like doing it, that's all.  I don't want anything back."

     _Liar_ , Cullen thought.

     But he said, "As you say," and tried for Carver's mouth again.  This time he earned a telltale reward; for just an instant Carver shivered and opened his mouth.  Cullen delved in at once, nibbling at his lower lip, touching Carver's tongue with his own -- and then Carver inhaled and pulled away. 

     Cullen sighed in frustration.  "I want _more_ , Carver, can you not see that?  Will you never grow tired of hiding yourself from me?"

     The belly beneath Cullen's hand rose with a sudden inhalation.  He stared at Cullen, his face a vignette glimpse of raw hope.  Then he set his jaw and looked away and made his face stone again.  "Don't know what you mean."

     _No, you don't_.  "You force me to do something ungentlemanly, my friend," Cullen warned.  "Tell me you do not want this and I shall of course stop, but I do not think you will."  And he shifted to slide a hand down Carver's belly, over the smooth plane of his lower abdomen, into the thicket of hair beneath and -- ah.  Well, well.  Carver flushed as Cullen's fingers found what they sought, and Cullen could not help smiling at his discomfiture.  "No, I think you _will not_ deny me, not this time."

     There was blissful silence for all of a few moments, while Cullen stroked and explored the breadth of him -- and the length of him, and the head of him; in the Maker's name, he excelled in all things.  Then when Cullen eased the bedsheets down to examine this abundance more closely, Carver's fingers tangled in his own.  "Y-you don't have to," he said again, but his hand trembled.  Want had softened his face.

     "But I do."  Cullen bent and kissed his fingers, then nuzzled them out of the way when they went limp.  "I _want_ to.  I _need_ to, Carver.  You have tormented me most unfairly, and I will bear it no longer."

     "I, I haven't," Carver began, and then he sucked in a harsh breath when Cullen tried something that Carver had done to him not so long ago.  " _Oh bloody Void_ \-- "

     And then, thankfully, he fell silent but for occasional vulgarities so foul that Cullen's ears burned to hear them.  Cullen appreciated the relative silence, as he had never undertaken this exercise before and he quickly discovered that it took some concentration to do properly.  Without distractions he could relax and enjoy the feel of smooth, hot skin, and the taste of bitter salt and hint of sweat, and the lingering scent of the soap the Tranquil had used to bathe him.  He could explore with his hands and feel the flutter of Carver's pulse, quickening; the heat and tightening of his softest skin; he could experiment with taking him in deeper and swallowing, and enjoying Carver's violent shudders whenever he did so.  He could growl his enjoyment of all these sensations -- earning a familiar deep groan of response -- and fumble his free hand into his own pants to stroke in tandem as he quickened matters toward their resolution.

     He slurped free when Carver cried out, but this was just so that he could watch the other man's face break apart and soften into that so-rare beauty that Cullen loved to see.  Whenever Carver showed his true self, it was a thing to be savored.  Then, mindful of the Tranquils' hard work, Cullen licked him clean again, ignoring Carver's soft whimpers and twitches as he did so.  He still had no idea of the etiquette of such circumstances, but being neat seemed only polite, especially as Carver had always been considerate of him in that way.

     Afterward he stood and undressed, lifted the sheet and climbed into bed alongside Carver, and kissed him thoroughly now that he was less likely to pull away.  He was pleased to find that Carver in fact returned the kiss enthusiastically now, clutching at him to pull him closer, and this occupied them for several moments.  Then Cullen simply slid his arms around the man and gazed at him, which Carver had never permitted him to do before.  He was pleased to see only wonder in Carver's eyes as he stared back.

     "You, uh..." Carver said, moving a little against him; Cullen was still quite hard, though the ache of it was tolerable.

     Cullen shook his head.  "Later, perhaps, I will -- _take care of_ \-- myself.  I have had what I wanted, for now."  Though he bent for more kisses.  Having been deprived for so long, he felt the need to make up for lost time.

     When at last they parted, Carver was flushed and frustrated, and his body had finally relaxed against Cullen's.  "Did you have to wait 'til I was practically an invalid?  This is driving me mad."

     That suited Cullen; it seemed only just recompense for what Carver had put him through.  "When you're well," Cullen said, shifting his hips just a little in suggestion, "I want to -- to --  I have seen you at the Rose."  A comma of long lean flesh, arching and thrusting backward.  Carver flushed bright red, and Cullen let out a shaky breath.  "I want that."  Maker, _how_ he wanted it.  It made no sense... but some things were not meant to make sense.  "And I want, ah, the reverse of that, and anything else we devise between us.  And I want you to _talk_ to me when you're not drunk or grief-stricken or too angry to think clearly.  And I want to _kiss_ you, whenever I want and as often as I may.  And I want you to bloody _tell me_ what _you_ want."  He blushed at his own crude language, but sometimes such words were necessary to convey emphasis.  "I want _everything_."

     Carver let out an unsteady breath.  "That's.  Ah.  That's a lot."  He added, quickly, "Not _too much_ to ask, mind.  Just... well.  I didn't know you wanted _anything_ , let alone... that."

     "You."  Cullen bent to take his mouth again; he could not seem to get enough of this, and it did not help that Carver shuddered and made such alluring little sounds with each thrust of his tongue.  He was so looking forward to thrusting other things -- and perhaps this line of thought was indecent.  He lifted his head and took a deep breath to clear his head.  "I want -- need -- _you_."

     Carver swallowed hard and then seemed to steel himself.  "Yeah.  I, ah, I want that, too.  You.  Too."

     "Then it is settled."  Cullen bent to kiss his shoulder, then his throat, and then he exhaled and laid his head on Carver's chest.  "Rest, and in the morning we shall begin again."

     He was tired himself -- and drained emotionally; all this _wanting_ and _needing_ was unnecessarily complicated.  But as he relaxed toward sleep, he felt Carver's arms fold tentatively around him, one hand cupping and stroking his short hair.

     "Yes, _ser_ ," Carver said, his voice a low rumble of amusement and warmth.

     They slept.

#

     The war did not end.  The world did not suddenly become better.  Word came that the Champion had disappeared completely, and the Seekers of Truth arrived hunting him, both of which proved to be enormous problems in the long term.  Not all the mages in the restored Gallows proved loyal or decent.  Nor all of the Templars -- especially as rumors spread that the acting Knight Commander liked to bend his acting Knight Captain over a desk now and again.

     Cullen was not much inclined to care.  He had everything he needed to fulfill his sacred duty:  his sword, his shield, his will and wit.  That the Maker had seen fit to also give him a strong comrade-in-arms, to help protect their charges with _his_ magnificent blade and _his_ stone eyes and _his_ white flash of a smile -- well, there was a beauty in that, a righteousness, which Cullen believed Carver felt as well.  Even if not, he knew he could rely upon Carver to stand with him until the worst was over, and perhaps beyond.  Carver had said it himself, after all:  for as long as Cullen needed him, at Cullen's side was where he belonged.  And that, surely, was a true blessing in the Maker's name.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been trying to write Cullen/Carver for months now. Per the second game's characterization, Cullen is a borderline ascetic and Carver is an insecure attention whore (though I love them both); it's frustratingly hard to make that work. I decided that Carver as passive-aggressive seducer -- until Cullen gets fed up, catches a clue, and goes for the kill -- might suit them. Let me know how it works, if it does.
> 
> Also, Tanukiham, dunno if you celebrate Christmas, but I do and felt gift-givey. Very different characterizations from yours, alas, and I'm not entirely happy with this one -- I'd intended a more solemn feel but it quickly veered off toward humorous. ::sigh:: So hard to control, these two. But you asked about Cullen/Carver, so here's some.


End file.
